


The Closest

by deathbypastry



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, you could choke on all this fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 12:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20447405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbypastry/pseuds/deathbypastry
Summary: Based on the prompt “don’t flatter yourself Lucy, you just happened to be the closest.”Set at the end of King of the Delta Blues.





	The Closest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kissedbydragonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissedbydragonfire/gifts).

> My first prompt ever.

Music is powerful. It speaks to the soul and has always had a way of taking Lucy outside of herself. But at this moment, listening to the thrumming twang of the guitar and the bittersweet croon of Robert Johnson, she's hyperaware of her surroundings, noticing and feeling every minute sensation as if it is intensified a thousand times. She can feel the vibration of the hardwood floorboards as her foot taps to the music, creating a hollow echo beneath the beams and her skirt tickles her legs as it sways to the beat of the music. The scarred wooden table is welcomingly cool on her arms in the warm, muggy dancehall, which smells of beer, whiskey, and sweat. No doubt from the long nights of drinking and laughing and dancing to beats from the glowing jukebox in the far-off corner.

What an electric place, so alive and buzzing. She almost forgets that they're in the middle of a war. She wants to forget. For now, though, she's going to take in everything about this moment. Make the most of it. There are no screaming alarms, nobody is trying to kill them, just the deepness of the music and everything she can feel, see, hear, and touch. God, what she wouldn't give to be able to kick off her shoes, get up, and dance.

Maybe it's the whiskey? It's too smoky and it burns when it goes down, but she hardly notices now that she's on her second glass. That must be why she feels this way. The energy in the air crackles around her. It feels amazing. Like she is inside and outside herself at the same time. She's not drunk, a little tipsy maybe, but not drunk. She just feels free. She hasn't felt this loose and relaxed in ages. She never wants it to end. She lets out a deep sigh, slinks back in her chair, settling into the music even more, and catches sight of Flynn sitting in the chair next to her. 

He's into the music too, tapping his feet, a brilliant smile on his face. He looks so light and jovial. He has been this whole trip. Usually, he's scouring the place with a menacing scowl on his face looking for threats and, no doubt, people to kill. Is this what he was like before all this started? When he was with his wife and daughter? Happy? Dare she even say playful?

He really has been coming through for her ever since he came to the bunker. They don't talk much, but words have never been their foremost means of communication. They're connected somehow, on the same wavelength.

The words soul mate flash across her mind.

She shakes them away, quickly. No, he can't be that. It must be something else between them. 

It's been there from the beginning. The way he gazes into her soul and how it doesn't scare her. Oh, he was a pain in the ass to be sure. He still is at times. But the small gestures lately, the silent nod in Salem, the beer and company after both of their shitty ass days, helping her out of the lifeboat, joking around with her to lighten the mood, have been so comforting. Not to mention the big ones, saving her before she could be hung as a witch then getting her patched up after she was stabbed. He fretted over her all night until he had to leave to go after Rittenhouse again. Today alone he has saved her life from that sleeper and buried a body for her. She chuckles softly at that.

Soul mate.

She shakes her head again, more vigorously this time, like she's trying to erase the sketch of those words in her mind. It can't be. He doesn't even know her. Oh, he thinks he does, damn that blasted journal. She hates that thing! But how could he? What the hell did she write in that thing anyway?

She feels Flynn's hand brush across hers momentarily, sending a warm spark that is more than just a startle through her. It whips her out of her reverie and she sees Flynn looking at her with deep concern.

Is everything okay, Lucy? He doesn't need to say it. It's on his face.

She waves her hand and shakes her head softly to say I'm good, just my mind wandering a bit.

Wordless conversations. Things of soul mates.

She waves off that thought too and smiles at him, Flynn flashing a ridiculous smile back at her as he turns back to enjoy the music. 

God, he looks good. That dark suit, the deep crimson of his tie and pocket square, the cut of his perfect jawline, his thick, combed back hair. He really is very attractive. When he's not being an asshole that is. She shifts herself in her chair, leaning in a little bit closer to him, and gets lost again in the ache of the music.

Flynn's breath catches. Did Lucy just lean over into him a little? He can smell the strawberry scent of her hair now and inhales to savor it. This is nice. He loves the guitar and the profound feelings effected by the blues. They truly are a tonic for whatever ails you, finding the hole in your soul and filling it up. Like Lucy. She's actually here, by his side. They are working as a team. And today they actually talked and joked and connected in a new, initially awkward, but now deeper way. Is this what she meant from her journal, about them being together? It feels good. She feels good. Truth be told, she actually makes him feel things again. He was so numb for so long.

He can tell by the various looks on Lucy's face, which he keeps furtively stealing glances at, she feels the music deep inside her too. Dear God, she's beautiful.

That's a dangerous thought.

He hates the way it sends a jolt of lightning through him whenever she looks at him, or when she lets him help her out of the lifeboat, her soft hands warm on his shoulders, her hair falling easily around her face as he lifts her down, her sweet smell.

He needs to stop thinking about her like this. But he can't. But he has to. If he's being honest, he's in love with her. He has been from the beginning. Ever since the tiny historian bested his every move and showed him another way, touched his heart, brought it back to life. But that's not what she needs, another man with a lost family confessing his feelings to her. That is definitely the last thing she needs. 

He shakes his head and swigs a sip of whiskey while sneaking another glance at Lucy.

Her smile is brilliant, her eyes soft and happy. It warms him to see her like this. No, she doesn't need him to be in love with her. She needs a friend, an ally, someone who has got her back. He can be that for her. He can be anything for her.

The room breaks into whoops and applause as Robert finishes his last song and Mason, or, er, Lando, signals that the recording has ended. Lucy jumps to her feet in ovation and Flynn follows her, exchanging charged, smiling glances with her as they celebrate this small victory.

Robert pauses for a minute, smiles bright, then turns around, grabs his guitar again and starts belting out Sweet Home Chicago, as Betsy, Carrie, Muddy, and Son take to the floor and start dancing to the buoyant rhythm of this more upbeat tune.

Flynn grabs Lucy's hand and tugs on it gently. She resists, confused for a moment, then lets him lead her out from behind the table to an open space on the floor. He pulls her into his arms, watching her closely for any sign that she doesn't want this. She does. He may die from the way she is looking at him right now, but, god, he would die happy. 

He places one hand firmly on her back. He thinks he feels her shutter a little bit. He must be imagining things. He cups her other hand in his, hoping she doesn't notice his sweaty palm or the slight tremble at her touch. They start to sway gently back and forth and he leans his head a little closer to her, almost pressing his lips to her hair.

"Don't flatter yourself, Lucy," he says, voice deep and low. "You just happened to be the closest and I wanted to dance." 

Lucy chuckles, eyeing him suspiciously, a doubtful smile turned up at the corners of her mouth. She sighs, leans into him, and rests her head softly on his shoulder. He is going to have to work harder if he wants to hide his feelings from her. He has to. It's what she needs. But god he loves her so much. If only they could stay like this, pressed together, rocking slow and soft, his heart full. Life needs more slow dances. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Fanart] The Closest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21380929) by [DraejonSoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraejonSoul/pseuds/DraejonSoul), [UnUnpredictableMe (DraejonSoul)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraejonSoul/pseuds/UnUnpredictableMe)


End file.
